The First Horcrux
by Rhyainn
Summary: What is it like to be a horcrux? The story of a young soul, composed only of memories, and his diary.


(Yay! More fanfiction as a school project!

So, the story of this story is pretty funny. I really wanted to write a fanfiction for my final project, and I really wanted to do something that had to do with a younger Voldemort. But I was having trouble thinking of anything good. So my coworker asked me a question the other day that sparked this story. He said, "What do you think it feels like, in your own words, to be a horcrux?"

I think he specifically meant Harry, but I started thinking about Tom Riddle's diary. Because it does have a consciousness, doesn't it? So I decided to write about that. (My answer to his question, by the way, was "cramped and lonely.") And it's been pretty fun. I really wanted to paint a picture of a young, sympathetic Tom Riddle. (We'll see how well I succeed.) I've thought a lot about Voldemort and why, exactly, he felt he had to be the way he was.

Obviously, I can't ever have all my answers. I can only make my own theories. In a way, I believe that his childhood made him lonely and bitter. But ultimately, no one controlled his actions except for him. Overall, I think he is an ingenious villain and a very sympathetic character. If I could have any story from HP expanded upon, it would be his. I would love to see a childhood story, or a book about his years at Hogwarts.

So, here we go. Thanks so much for reading; I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Sorry it's a little long. I'd only intended it to be, like, five pages, but I really got into his character…)

The First Horcrux

"Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial."

—_Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

* * *

><p>I've been waiting in silence for fifty years with only my memories to keep me company. It's a comfortable life (if one can call this existence "life"). Especially since my last memory is one of triumph. The creation of this diary, whose pages hold my soul, is my greatest achievement. And now, at last, my purpose can be realized.<p>

I was her age, when I first learned about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. When Professor Dumbledore confirmed my suspicions. No, not suspicions. I'd always known. Without a doubt. I didn't need an arrogant old man to tell me. I'd always known that I was special. I remember the day with perfect clarity, of course. How could I forget? Memories are what I am.

"_No one's ever understood me like you, Tom." _

"_It's alright, Ginny. Sometimes you just need to give people time to come around. You're wonderful, and I'm sure this Harry Potter will soon come to see that for himself."_

Foolish girl. Why on earth would I care about your lovesick fantasies? Or your insignificant family troubles? I can hardly believe that this girl is old enough to be allowed at Hogwarts. She certainly doesn't act so. Here she is, only five years younger than I am, and she can't seem to go a single hour without scribbling down her newest tragedy of the day and expecting me to make it all better.

Honestly, I almost prefer my life of solitude.

"_Thank you, Tom. You're so nice to me. I'm really glad I found your diary. We're a lot alike, you know?"_

"_Yes, I agree. I wish I'd been able to go to school with you. I believe you'd have been a great friend. Well, I don't need to believe it, do I? You are a great friend."_

"_You're the one who's great, Tom. This is wonderful. It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket."_

I don't believe I was ever as pathetic as she is. Especially not at eleven years old. I made this diary to record my memories and house my soul, not to bear my troubles to an empty page to be read generations later. I've never had a use for the emotions she's sharing with me. This girl opens her heart so easily. Even when Dumbledore came to the orphanage, and I'll be the first to admit that I was careless and allowed my excitement to take control, I wasn't anything like her.

But I was careless. Far too careless. It was unlike me, to speak so openly. And, though I've been careful not to allow similar slips in judgment to occur, I must admit that I had a right to react as I did. Though I never have and never will have any sort of fondness for Albus Dumbledore, he was, at the time, my destiny's messenger. He brought me the news I'd been hoping for all my life.

I wasn't nervous, of course, when I'd made my first trip to Diagon Alley alone. I was glad the old fool hadn't insisted on holding my hand. Exploring would have been impossible with him looming over my shoulder. And I found everything he told me about and more, didn't I? I've always been better off alone. Unlike this Ginny girl. She is too weak. Unable to function on her own.

As she gives me more of herself, my presence within her grows stronger. Finally, after what feels like countless, endless years of pampering and catering, I am able to take control of her body.

Being able to see through her eyes is nice, though borrowed senses are nowhere near as potent as the real thing. Still, I enjoy being able to move about on my own. The first thing I do is take a look around. Hogwarts is much like it is in my memories. One would think that the place would have changed in fifty years. But the dungeons are the same. The classrooms are the same. The hallways and staircases are the same (if in a somewhat different layout). I can't get into the Slytherin common room, unfortunately. This girl is a Griffindor. I go instead to the Great Hall. Dinner is being served. Though my senses are dulled, the taste of the feast is incredible.

I mostly waste time, that first night. But no matter. During the following nights, I slowly set my plans into motion. Ginny is completely ignorant, of course. Her friends suspect nothing, of course. Haven't I listened to enough of her whining to be able to imitate her perfectly?

She writes more on days when I take control.

"_I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. I really think there might be something wrong with me. What should I do, Tom?"_

Idiot girl. Perhaps you should go and ask your precious Harry Potter for help. If he was able to defeat the greatest wizard who ever lived, then surely he could fix a little memory problem? Surely a basilisk should be no problem for the great Harry Potter? If he is such a great wizard, then surely this little mystery won't be too much for him?

We'll see, won't we?

"_Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he suspects me. How could he think his own sister would do something like this? I don't know what to do."_

How sweet that your brother is so concerned for you, girl. Not that it makes any difference. What good is your family, anyway? They won't protect you. Can't protect you. And your friends don't even notice when you go missing for hours at a time. Shows how much they really care, doesn't it? Friends are worthless unless they have something to offer. You're just too desperate to realize that.

I can't believe that Dumbledore is the headmaster now. As though Hogwarts wasn't stifling enough with him as a teacher. I'll bet he sticks his nose into all sorts of places it doesn't belong. Old man never could learn to mind his own business.

She writes less, now. She is beginning to suspect me.

"_Tom, you have something to do with this, don't you? You know what's been happening to me."_

It's too late, girl. You're already mine. Not completely…but almost. Soon I'll be able to meet him face to face. Soon I'll be free. And it's all thanks to you, dear Ginny. All thanks to your weakness. You deserve to be my tool. Anyone foolish enough to bear her soul to the first thing that'll sit still and listen isn't worthy of being anything more than a pawn. Does she really think that someone's going to come and save her?

"_Tom, I'm going to get rid of the diary. I can't trust you anymore. Goodbye."_

No, no, no! I hastily scribe my reply, telling her to stop, asking her to reconsider, but she doesn't answer. She's gone.

No matter. It isn't like she can destroy the diary. Idiotic girl thinks she can toss me away like that? She'll come back. I scribble words that I know she won't see.

"_I'm already within you, Ginny. You cannot escape me."_

I wait. And wait. But it doesn't matter. I've waited for fifty years, haven't I? What difference does a few days make? No need to rush my plans. No need to get careless. She'll come back.

So I wait

And wait.

But I don't mind.

I'm always alone.

I enjoy it.

And finally, someone puts ink to my page. But it isn't words. Instead, a small blot of ink sinks into the parchment. I wait, curious about this new writer. And, finally, fresh words appear on my page. Unfamiliar handwriting.

"_My name is Harry Potter."_

For a moment, I can't react. Impossible. Impossible, that he would be the one to find my diary. That he would be writing to me. I have no heart to beat, no sense of touch or sight, yet I feel nervousness overtake me. I carefully send back my reply.

"_Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?"_

He doesn't open his soul to me like Ginny. But he asks about the Chamber of Secrets. I feed him my old lie, almost enjoying telling the story again. Hagrid, the heir of Slytherin? It was almost insulting. More insulting, though, was the fact that everyone believed it. Potter isn't very wordy, unlike Ginny Weasley. And I want more. This was the boy who defeated me? I can hardly believe it.

So I offer to take him into my memories. This is where I truly live. Within shadows of the past. I can walk through them time and time again, reliving old moments that I've lived a dozen times before, seeing and knowing nothing of the world outside. And this is where I can see him.

He is short. Dense. Completely oblivious. Staring around at my memories, mouth agape, just like a child. Pathetic, just like her. Just like all of them. He is nothing like me.

Too soon, he is gone. And he doesn't write again.

More time passes, though these days are not spent in bored complacency. Instead, I am anxious. Awaiting his return. I want to know more about him. The idiotic explanations and descriptions Ginny gave me were worthless. I want to speak to him. I want to know more about him. So far, he has failed to impress.

But the next time words are put onto my pages, it isn't Harry Potter's handwriting. I feel like screaming at Ginny. Stupid girl. But I speak kindly to her. I assure her that I gave none of her secrets to her precious Harry Potter. I'm not sure if she believes me, but at this point it doesn't matter.

Every word she records brings me closer to my goal. I don't need him to have the diary; I'll soon speak to him face to face. He'll be no match for me. A laughably normal boy with no special powers. I'll kill him easily. There must be more to the story of Lord Voldemort's defeat than Ginny knows. No little boy could defeat the greatest wizard who ever lived. No child could defeat me.

So I take her, for the last time. I force her to write her own farewell and bring her down into the Chamber of Secrets. This is the last time I'll see from her eyes. And I'll never again have to wait for my prey to come to me. No longer shall I be trapped in the pages of this book.

So this is farewell. Within seconds I'll be outside in a new body, fed on Ginny's soul. Strengthened by her naiveté. Soon after, Harry Potter will come down into my Chamber, thinking he can rescue his friend. But it will be far too late.

I wonder how much strength my old self was able to gain in fifty years? Well, more like forty, I suppose. Since he was defeated more than ten years ago. I wonder if he was really killed. Doubtful. He is strong, like me. I'm not sure if I should seek him out or continue on my own.

But that's all to be decided once I have dealt with my current problem. I can feel my presence fading here. The outside world calls to me. I can feel now, just a bit. I must be lying on the ground. I feel the gritty floor beneath my hands and cheek. The cold stone feels incredible.

And the sounds! I can hear them. They fade in softly. My beloved Chamber has sat empty for so long. I can hear water. And other distant sounds. Every little noise echoes here.

But still, everything is dark. Why? Why can't I see? My other senses are working, and I can feel the diary's presence fading. Soon I'll be unable to make these words appear on the diary's pages. So why?

Suddenly, I realize. And I open my eyes.


End file.
